Paper thin walls
by AirborneGirl
Summary: Hotel room walls are paper thin. Jane overhears a dream in which he plays a dreadful part. But who's dreaming about him?


**A/N: **After not being able to write for quite a while (and looking for a new show to capture my attention), I finally found the time and my muse again: The Mentalist and Simon Baker, a.k.a. Patrick Jane. I hope you enjoy my first Mentalist story and that I havn't lost my writing touch yet.

**Disclaimer**: Like JAG, Gilmore Girls, Cold Case, Harry Potter, McLeods Daughters, etc before this, I don't own the Mentalist or its characters.

**Paper thin Walls**

Usually, the walls between hotel rooms are paper thin and this hotel made no happy exception to said rule. Not that it mattered to him. Icy silence or thundering noise, he was an incurable insomniac. Had been for the last five years. Oddlu enough, his body had somehow adjusted itself to its state of semi-permenent sleep deprivation. His mind, however, did not always.

Tonight was such a night. His senses were on high alert and every twist, turn, snore or sigh was registered.

In the bed on the other side of the room he could make out the shape of Wayne Rigsby, his assigned roommate. The room next door housed their boss, Teresa Lisbon. She was supposed to share her room with Van Pelt, but the latter had bumped into an old academy friend and was bunking with her now. Cho had sprung for a single room out of his own pocket and Jane silently wished he'd done the same.

He sighed as he tried to get comfortable on the bumpy pull-out bed, the springs shrieking ominously as he wriggled, waking up Rigsby in the process.

"You okay, man? Wanna take the bed for a while?"

"No thanks. Can't sleep anyway. So at least one of us should."

"Whatever. But stop making so much noise then!"

Rigsby fluffed his pillow with some force and put his head down with a thud, clearly indicating their short conversation was over.

Jane couldn't blame him for his short fuse. It had been a gruesome day for all of them, ending with Lisbon saving his hide (again) when the young man who was being accused of the violent murder of an elderly gasstation employee tried to take a shot at him. He'd been trying to talk some sense into the man (more like a boy, really, seventeen at the most), but the boy was so hyped up by his deed and whatever the coroner would find in his stomach during autopsy, that his words didn't seem to have any effect whatsoever.

Except for the gun which was suddenly pointing at Jane's chest.

It had frightened Jane and here in the darkness of the room, he wasn't above and beyond admitting it. So when after what felt like hours, a shot had pierced the eerie stand-off, he had cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. Only to open them again to find himself perfectly in one piece, but with the boy lying expressionless and motionless at his feet. And Lisbon surrendering her gun to the nearest CSI officer for evidence, as procedure dictated, all the while studiously avoiding his gaze.

Since it had already been way past midnight when all the mandatory paperwork had been filled out and the body had been taken away, Lisbon had called Minelli and had gotten his permission to spend the night at the only Inn this small hole in the wall town had provided. It wasn't much of a place, decrepit with age and lack of attention. But to them, it had looked like paradise when they had dragged their dusty, tired selves inside.

All in all, not a very pleasant day, Jane mused, staring at the inidentifiable dark stains on the ceiling. For besides the fact he himself had been scared, he had also seen the petrified face of the boy as he shakily held the weapon, realizing just before he could pull the trigger that his chances of getting out of there were second to none, whatever happened next.

Even worse, he had seen the look of apprehension on Lisbon's face as she held out the gun for the CSI agent to take from her. She had not wanted to kill the boy, but had done so to save his hide.

And someday, someday soon, he, Jane, might force her into a similar situation. Only he would be the one pointing a gun at a man's chest. And she would have to shoot him to save the other man's hide...would she do it?

Or more to the point: would he ever force her into a stand-off like that? Could he kill a man in cold blood and suffer the consequences? His own death? A trial? Watching Teresa during said trial (she would have to be there to testify and she would tell the truth as was expected of her) and possibly detect...what? Pain? Rejection? Anger? Whatever he could come up with, it wasn't a pleasant sight, not even in his overproductive imagination.

How much would he gain? How much would he lose? A chance to build up a new life. One in which a certain dark-haired agent played an important part...

"No! NO! Please, no!"

What was that? He shot upright, concentrating on the source of the high-pitched scream, so full of fear. It had woken up Rigsby again too, who looked around disturbed.

"Now what?" he mumbled.

"Shush, let me listen."

There it was again. A hoarse cry, coming from the room next to them.

"No! Oh my God, PATRICK!"

Holy crap, that was Lisbon! Screaming his name at the top of her lungs...?! What the...?!

At any other given moment, Jane would have loved an opportunity like this to goad his boss lady into revealing her rather sexy blush, but this was not such a time. She sounded really panicked. He didn't wait for Rigsby to get his bearings and rouse himself out of bed as he sprinted out the door. In no time he had picked the oldfashioned, riggity lock of Lisbon't room and stumbled into the darkness, his collegue now hot on his heels.

It was pitch-dark and all he could distinct while his eyes adjusted themselves to the lack of light, were the countours of Lisbon't body as she sat stiff as a board on her bed, eyes wide but unseeing and lips formulating words of fear as she clearly struggled through a very real nightmare.

"I thinks she's still asleep," Rigsby whispered, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

Jane bit his tongue to prevent the 'No Duh' threatening to escape from his lips, from actually coming out. He couldn't waste a single second on his oblivious coworker. His only priority at that moment was getting Lisbon through her frightening dream.

Gathering all the confidence he needed in his own capabilities, whether true or not, he approached the bed and gingerly sat down next to his boss, taking her small, clammy right hand in his own.

" Shouldn't we wake her?" Rigsby suggested, clearly ill at ease at the thought of being in Lisbon's room without her permission. Jane just shook his head, not caring if the gesture was lost in the dark.

"No. I'm gonna try to guide her through it while she sleeps. With some luck, she won't even remember any of this in the morning. Now be quiet. I need to concentrate."

Rigsby shrugged. Jane seemed to be knowing what he was doing, so he might as well let him. He couldn't make himself leave the room though, was somehow curious if their consultant could pull it off. Whatever it was he was attempting to achieve.

Jane started talking in a soft, soothing, warm and gentle voice, the one Rigsby had heard him use before when he was hypnotizing a witness or suspect.

"Teresa. What is happening? What do you see?"

He waited patiently for her to answer, knowing from experience she could hear him through the haze of her nightmare.

"I...I shot him."

"Who did you shoot, Teresa?"

He had to repeat the question, since she refused to answer the first time.

"No, no, I don't...so much blood. He's dead. I shot him."

He kept stroking her hand softly, his voice not betraying any emotions.

"Can you see him?"

A sob. "Yes."

"Go to him. Show me."

"No...I don't wanna see...he's dead."

"Don't be scared, Teresa. Just take one step at a time."

He remained silent for a while, giving her dream-self time to get closer to the alledged victim.

"What do you see now?"

She whimpered like a small animal before answering in a raspy voice.

"Him. His body. Patrick. He's dead."

Now he smiled, a risky idea materializing in his brain. If she were alive, she would most definitely follow her dream alter ego's example and kill him, but he convinced himself he did it only to help her. Nothing else.

"Where was he hit? Can you see?"

"In the chest. Right above his heart." Another gut-wrenching sob.

Calmly, and completely ignoring Rigsby's gasp of surprise (he'd totally blocked out the other man's presence), Jane pulled the shirt he was wearing over his head with his free hand and with the other, guided Teresa's hand to his now bare chest, directly above his heart, the exact place she had indicated in her dream.

"He's not dead, Teresa." He tried to convince her. She wasn't fooled that easily though.

"He is. I saw him fall down. I shot him. I love him, but I...I killed him."

Again, his all but forgotten wide awake coworker gasped, even louder this time, at the confession coming from his boss's lips. He opened his mouth, but whetever he had meant to say got stuck in the back of his throat as his eyes found Jane's. There was no mistaking that look. He was to remain very, very silent about this slip-up or suffer dire consequences.

Knowing the message had come across, Jane again focussed all his attention on helping Lisbon. True, his own heart had skipped a beat or two after her last spoken words, but she was asleep and therefore not responsible for what she said. The chance she would repeat them while awake and alert were second to none, nor were they of any importance at this particular moment.

Again, he spoke to her softly. "He's not dead. Feel his heartbeat."

He put her hand firmly and flatly on his chest, her sensitive fingertips pressing against his heart.

"See? Still beating."

Yeah...just a tad too quickly, but what the hey?

"But...the bullets."

Slowly, he guided her fingers to the place where his bullet wounds were supposed to be.

"There are no bullet holes. Feel that? No holes. Strong heartbeat. Patrick's not dead. You didn't shoot him."

He knew the very moment he had succeeded, as her hand relaxed in his, her breath evened out and a smile appeared on her face.

"No...not dead. He's getting up. Smiling at me. Still here with me."

"Right where he belongs, darling Teresa."

As he felt her slip further and further into a deep, healing, dreamless sleep, he let go of her hand and pushed her back on her pillow. He carefully rearranged her blankets over her small frame, tucking her in as he had done his daughter, years before but not forgotten. Then, on impulse, he bent over and kissed her brow.

"Sweet dreams, my love. Patrick's alive. He's right here with you. And he wants you to know he loves you too."

Without glancing back at the flabbergasted Rigsby, Jane left the room and got back to their own, suddenly very exhausted. His roommate shut the door behind him.

"I promise I won't tell a soul," he blurted out as soon as the door was firmly closed.

Jane just shrugged. "I know you won't."

"And it's not like she'll actually remember, right?"

"No, probably not."

Jane sighed and flipped onto his back, staring at the ceiling as if hoping it would provide him with the answers he wasn't sure he wanted to have.

Like: would she remember what she said?

Or: would she remember what he answered?

And, most important: Why was he hoping that somehow she would?

THE END

A/N Sequel is possible, if this story is deemed to warrant one. Just let me know what you think. Any comment is welcome!


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